


Artificial Dreaming

by Churbooseanon



Series: Dreaming of You [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-26 23:52:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1707173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Churbooseanon/pseuds/Churbooseanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even AIs can dream. For Epsilon it’s nightmares. And memories. And eventually something he wants to head back for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Artificial Dreaming

There are few things that man—and possibly alien—have discovered that are so strange a lifeform as an Artificial Intelligence. He’s always thought it was because of the strange line AIs are forced to stride. Like organic beings retain and form memories, they learn, they grow, they die, and more than anything, they can think. Unlike organics they can’t consume food, they cannot move around without some external form of assistance, and they cannot reproduce. At least, not in a traditional sense, something he knows on an intimate level. On the other hand they retain characteristics of computers: increased reasoning and intelligence; possessing and operating on programs, routines, and sub-routines; the ability to perform true multitasking; and even the fact that they were practically immortal and could shut themselves down for periods of time. Of course computers lacked the ability to experience emotions, didn’t always possess the kind of reasoning needed to weigh human life against other materials in a way humans can respect, and computers didn’t really have the ability to act independantly of their programming.

Of course one thing that no one had told Leonard Church when he had his brain scanned as the basis for the Alpha AI, was that they could dream.

The conclusion that Alpha had come to when he had first experienced the phenomena was the result of retained thought patterns from the man he knew was another him but preferred to refer to as the Director. His dreams were strange things, though, and the first thing Alpha did upon coming out of standby mode was set aside some part of his attention to analyze the dreams and try to figure out what potential meaning there was behind the ‘subconscious’ manifestations they presented.

Epsilon, though, he hadn’t had the chance to experience dreams in the same sense that Alpha had. No, he didn’t dream, he had nightmares. All of the nightmares Alpha had experienced once they started fragmenting him. Nightmares about losing himself, nightmares about the lives he was told he had been responsible for ending, nightmares about torture and torment and the other AI, the other parts of himself, that had been used against him. Torn from the Alpha as he was, all Epsilon could be was memory and personality, the echo of experience and dreams, and left in the containment unit for years, he had been doomed only to reliving memories, nightmares, and having his own while he waited. Well, no, not entirely his own. Some of the nightmares belonged to the Freelancer Washington, a good-hearted, idealistic young man who was plagued in his own quiet way by the lives he had taken. For all that he tried, he strove to be like the others, Washington had joined because he felt he needed to, felt that it was right, not because deep down he really enjoyed it all. Not like what Epsilon remembered of people like Wyoming and Maine from the psych profiles Alpha had read. Then there were the nightmares that belonged to a scared little boy named David. Nightmares that, like Washington’s, he had stolen the memories of when he had joined with Washington’s mind and then torn himself apart. Beyond that there were his own nightmares. Ones of isolation, of abandonment, of loss of self, and of the pain and terror of ripping himself to pieces in the mind he had so briefly shared.

His time with the Reds and Blues had been easier to deal with, in retrospect. For a time, brief in the grand scheme of things, he had Caboose’s words, stories, memories to experience, and they lulled him into a more peaceful ‘sleep.’ Then came the sudden, unceremonious thrusting into the artifact sphere, and there had been true peace. So much of what he was, of what he was burdened with remembering, was buried when Caboose yanked him from himself. The memories were repressed, buried deep, almost inaccessible until they had started to come back. There were no nightmares, just memories slowly piecing together, melding back into the whole of an echo of the Alpha—because he had long since stopped being Dr. Leonard Church—and Blue Team’s Church. There was nothing yet to build new, or even old, nightmares upon. His dreams, when they happened, were at best ‘visions’ of a base by a waterfall that actually turned out to be Sidewinder. But so little time passed between becoming the orb, recovering a spare body, and the events that led up to his return to his previous cage. There he had thrown himself back at the memories of Blood Glutch in an attempt to find Tex, to free her, or at least to apologize for all that the Director, Alpha, he had done to her.

Nor had things had a chance to slow down and let him settle in after he had been freed from his cage once more at Carolina’s behest. He had known her, had recognized her, and had been so caught up in the memory of a daughter he berated himself for forgetting and his desire to avenge himself, avenge Alpha, avenge the Freelancers and the world on the Director. There hadn’t been time to rest. There hadn’t been a chance to sleep. He hadn’t dared go into stand-by mode at all, lest he find himself caught up all over again in the nightmares and lose his courage to face the Director because of the terror and burden of his literally flawless memories.

It was only here, only now, that they had left the Reds and Blues behind after the crash that there was time. That there was a chance. That he let himself risk stand-by and the horrors it promised to contain. Not that any of them were Carolina’s, of course. They had been certain to make sure he never delved into her as deeply and fully as he had into Washington. Neither of them wanted to share the memories of what a man that wasn’t him had done, how he had failed them both so intimately. He didn’t want to pollute what good memories she had of her father or mother with the full truth of it all. She… Had her own reasons for holding back he was certain. Maybe shame at how she had lived her life and never being ‘worthy’ in her own father’s eyes. It was too much to share. So at night Carolina would withdraw into her dreams, leaving him to watch over her as he failed so terribly at in the last decade or so.

Then, one night, it was too much, too long, and he could feel himself suffering over the lack of downtime. Quietly, nervously he had told Carolina, admitted he couldn’t keep going. That he needed to rest. She had only whispered that she knew, and that for a night she would watch over him. At last he handed himself over to the dreams that came to AIs and prayed that there was a chance he could make it through without screaming himself ‘awake.’

He almost did when he felt the hands ghosting over a body he didn’t have. The first reaction is fear, terror, because for some reason the Director had finally stooped to letting Sigma, Gamma and Omega directly interact with him, the three choosing to tear him to pieces with their own hands as it were. But no, there was no malice in the touch. Only something soft, something welcoming, something familiar in an intimate sort of way. He didn’t rest long enough for it to be more than hands, gentle, kind hands, roving all over the body he didn’t have. Still, the fear is there, the worry that it all get worse if he gave it a chance, and at last he tore himself from the dream, long before he could figure out just whose hands they were.

It took a few days before he let himself rest longer, rest deeper, welcoming the touches out of curiousity and a near yearning for the closest thing to a kindness offered to him since those first few seconds with Washington before his memories pushed themselves to the forefront of his mind. Sure enough the hands were there, but this time freeing him of the weight and burden of his armor, piece by piece. It made him feel vulnerable, weak, open, and yet the hands chased it all away. Each touch still gentle, each touch strong, comforting, a quiet promise to protect him. With that realization he knew it could never be Allison. No, his memories knew she was fast, eager, willing to use some force if it came to it because that had just been what their relationship had been. Her strength didn’t have that soothing edge to it. Nor, he realized as the final piece of armor was cast aside and the hands moved to exploring his flesh through the thin barrier of the jumpsuit, could it be Washington. Their minds had been wrapped together too tightly, to intimately, to ever have the kind of loving attention to detail, the slow intensity of a lover to be. They were parts of each other in a different way, but one decidedly brotherly. Again he woke up, this time as the hands started to free him from the second-skin of the jumpsuit, and he was left longing for their return and afraid to fall asleep once more.

The answer didn’t come until the first time he dared to let himself sleep the night through. Again the hands were there, slowly peeling him from his armor, every touch soft and strong and filled with loving attention. It was when the suit finally peels open, when what seemed like too hot fingers slip between the suit and his skin and explored that he realized. It was only when the suit was pulled back far enough and soft lips pressed against his collarbone that he dared gasp the name aloud.

At his name the younger man looked up, soft blond hair falling in his bright blue eyes, eyes lit with joy and true devotion. With a shaky hands he found himself reaching up, cupping the strong chin, and pulling Caboose up for a real kiss. The skin of his synthetic hands looked pale as snow next to the somehow sun-kissed gold of Caboose’s face, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care when he gave himself over to the kiss. It seemed to be all the prompting the younger man needed, and he found himself pinned by Caboose’s bulk, smothered in kisses that were at the same time both chaste and maddeningly brief. At last Caboose pulled away, smiling down at him once more, treating him to another look at the handsome face that he was somehow certain was accurate.

 _Church,_ the familiar voice named him, and even though those blue eyes told him that his teammate knew he was Epsilon, they also promised they didn’t care. To Caboose he had always been the same person, no matter the form he took. _Am I doing it wrong?_

 _No,_ he found himself answering. _I just wanted to see your face._

He hadn’t thought it possible for that smile to get any larger, and yet there it was, beaming down at him. Then it was gone and his face was buried in Caboose’s hair as the younger man attacked his neck with kisses that were anything but chaste.

Just a few minutes longer, Epsilon promised himself. Just a few minutes longer he would stay there, still and quiet as Caboose explored. After that… Well, after that it would be his turn, wouldn’t it? Maybe someday he’d even have the chance to compare what his mind created to the real thing.

No. Not maybe. He would do it for certain. Someday soon, when he’d finished his work with Carolina, he was going to fetch another body and find his way back to Caboose. For now though, he let himself dream, and revel in the odd emotional certainty he found. He had something to go back for, something to live for, beyond the task he had said himself. And it was only in the finding of it that he realized how badly he had needed it.

With Caboose slowly starting to fully peel him from the jumpsuit, Epsilon gave himself fully over to the dream.


End file.
